


Checkmate

by PartyLines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Manipulation, Non-con-but-not-of-the-normal-variety, Other, Party, Psychological Trauma, Samhain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 21:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16416629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartyLines/pseuds/PartyLines
Summary: Harry Potter and George Weasley throw a Halloween bash after the battle. No one's without scars.Written for Strictly Dramione's Halloween Fest





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my alpha/beta/hand-holder/meltdown-fixer and all else that she does - the lovely **zoomzoomzuppa**! All mistakes remaining are my own.
> 
> Also huge thanks are due to **coyg_81** for my very pwetty cover art! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine etc...
> 
> Edited 6th Nov 2018 for grammar disasters.
> 
> Also. PLEASE NOTE - **WARNING/PSA:** The following is not romantic, sweet, healthy, redeeming or okay. 
> 
> But please, do continue :).

You are cordially invited to the first annual 

 Lost Generation Hallowe'en Escape

Time and Date: Late Evening October 31st - Daybreak November 1st

 Location: Undisclosed - please use your exclusive invitation as a portkey after 9pm.

 Wards close at 11pm and won't reopen until daybreak.

Theme: Honouring the Old Traditions

We offer an evening to remember which promises to help you forget. 

Drinks and refreshments provided.

Costumes not required: charms on arrival will reveal your best-selves.

No RSVP necessary.

 

* * *

 

"It's fashionable to be late, Pans, chill already." 

"Of course it is, but its ten-thirty and you're drunk off your arse and still in last night's robes, not to mention that it's portkey access only and we'll miss it if we're after the cut-off!" Pansy Parkinson chastised her best friend as she rummaged through his huge mahogany wardrobe trying to find a suitable set of dress robes.

"So we'll get there right on eleven then. Honestly, Pans, I don't know why you're so thrilled - it's just another stupid society event designed to 'bridge-the-gap' and 'show that we've _changed_ ", retorted Draco Malfoy, in the entitled drawl that now only ever shone through when he was drunk - a good thing too, in light of the current social climate. 

"Draco, you haven't been to any of them!" Pansy protested as she tossed the only clean set of robes she'd found onto his lap. "Some of them have been okay - raising money to fix Hogwarts, feeding the little mudblood orphans, making everyone like us again... And this one might be different - it might really help... You know, help us get back to nor - Draco, what the hell is that?" She cut herself off, eyeing the powder that Draco had begun scratching at with the silver-gilt edge of his invitation. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Draco dusted the powder back into its little leather pouch and popped it into the pocket of the robes he was about to be forced to put on. "Nothing, _Mother_ _Dear_ ," he huffed as he shrugged off the plain black ensemble he'd worn three nights running. "A fellow can't even have a little pick-me-up around here without getting hassled. Happy now?" He asked, waving his wand over himself in a hasty "scourgify" before he slipped on the new outfit and brushed his hair back with his fingers. 

"Draco, you've been drunk or 'picked-up' since the Fifth of May, I hardly think one little comment is hassling -".

"The Fifth of May... that sounds familiar. Oh! Yes, of course. That's the day I watched my father's soul get sucked out through his arsehole mouth. You'd be drunk too, little-miss-perfect." He held his arm out to escort her and she took it with grace, ignoring his ranting as usual. 

"Right," said Draco, as he lead her towards the staircase of his home. "Are the others here? I'd really prefer we get this nonsense over with, don't you think?" 

With a roll of her eyes, Pansy dipped her head in deference and made one last check of her appearance in a decorative mirror as they passed. "Yes, Draco, they've been here since nine."

 

* * *

 

Draco stood with Pansy and Greg at his side and stared at the townhouse foyer in front of them. Although _some_ of their party seemed to be enraptured, Draco couldn't help the feeling of distaste as he peered down his nose at the nightmare-inspired disaster. Already, the house didn't nearly live up to the rich elegance of the invites and he was regretting coming. 

What was obviously an old, almost-ruin of a place had been ridiculously decorated. The walls were lined ground-to-ceiling with mirrors, and the flooring looked to have been _planted_ with a moss of some kind - it's pattern lacking any rhyme or reason. Ridiculous plastic broomsticks had been mounted on the walls beside large cut-outs of what he supposed were witches, and dotted amongst them were clown figurines that had clearly _not_ been designed with the intent to make one laugh.

There _was_ something bewitching about the ceiling though. It appeared to be enchanted in a similar fashion to the one in the Hogwarts Great Hall - except that it looked more like the innards of a volcano had swallowed the night sky and spat out the moon than it resembled the actual weather. It moved and rumbled like burning oil until it met cornice, where tiny droplets slid menacingly down the musty timber-panelled walls.

When the mystery hosts arrived, Draco immediately attempted to leave. He spun on the spot - keeping in mind the three D's - but when his stomach stopped wooshing and he opened his eyes he hadn't moved. The clock on the wall caught his eye: one minute past eleven. They were stuck.

 _Bloody_ _buggering hell!_

"Evening, Slytherins," a somber Weasley greeted them, looking as though he'd just stepped out of bed. It was the surviving twin - whichever that was. Three people with whom Draco was far better aquainted stepped out from behind him. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger - the saviours of the wizarding world and the very last people he wanted to spend his evening with. 

Potter held out his hand as if to shake but Draco refused. When he spoke, however, there was something in his words - in his _tone_ \- which intrigued Draco. "Welcome to the Lost Generation, Malfoy, other... snakes," he nodded, one eyebrow raised slightly as though daring them to start. "And to my humble abode - the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Potter punctuated the last line with a smirk and waved them toward a table laden with drinks and snacks. "Try the fava beans. They're terrific with a nice Chianti."

 

* * *

 

The place was crawling with such a mess of people that Draco couldn't decipher who was who. Purebloods, half-bloods and mudbloods. Aristocracy and paupers. Slytherins, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The only thing they had in common was their age. For the most part - with the exception of a few extra Weasley's and some hangers on - they had all been in his year at Hogwarts. That, and they'd all been somehow active in the war. 

For a while, everyone kept to their cliques and it seemed as though they were going to be left to fend for themselves which suited Draco just fine. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before George Weasley tapped a large crystal glass with his wand and began to speak above the settling raucous.

"Evening, all," he started, raising his glass. "Not sure this is what everyone was expecting, but I personally guarantee you a night of frivolity and enlightenment!" George sent a grin around the room and even Draco could tell it was reminiscent of the days before the battle: he looked almost as pleased with himself as he and his brother had before they left Hogwarts for the last time. 

_Maybe, just maybe, he has something good up his sleeve._

George dragged Potter to stand beside him before he continued his address. "We've put together this little soiree to celebrate us: the ones who made it out - yeah, you too, Baby Death Eaters. You had you're own battles to fight, as Harry here not-so-gently reminds us all-too-often. 

"The wizarding world is in ruin, my friends, and there's absolutely fucking nothing we can do about it. Not from opposite sides. But!" He leapt up onto the table, arms spread wide above his head. "If we can get along, just for _one_ night, imagine the repercussions. Imagine the ripple effect we can have on the world!" George spoke like a politician; like an evangelist. Like a man possessed. "So me and Harry here, hero that he is, put together this little idea." 

A spine-tingling cackle sounded from the opposite side of the room, and when Draco turned to find its source he almost jumped out of his skin. The witch was tiny and horrendously inaccurate, but her stringy black hair and deformed nose certainly made for a frightening sight as she began to spin mechanical circles around the guests. George was impressively uphased by the nasty little addition.

"The traditional muggle..." He continued, gesturing wildly around the room, "stuff... was mostly Harry's idea, seeing as I've no idea what it's about, but you can rest assured that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes has added their own special touches to it - much more fun indeed." He chortled. The sound was unnatural. 

"'Course, it only seemed fair that if we did muggle décor we do something magically traditional too. So behold, gang, Samhain Eve!" George clapped his hands together and a roaring bonfire rose up from the giant chessboard laid out in the center of the room, as if Hades had opened the gates of hell himself. The great stone pieces retreated to the very edges of their home as a gaping hole burnt through its middle.

Draco scoffed - unimpressed - and shrugged when his friends turned to him for his opinion. 

George, ecstatic and bright-eyed with the blaze before him, continued. "Granted, being a pretty devout blood-traitor, I don't know much about Samhain either... But O for effort I say! Besides, our brilliant 'Ermione did some research for us. We've got the bonfire, we've got the feast - Kreacher!" He snapped his fingers and the little elf appeared, dressed in a bright pumpkin costume - and looking none too pleased about it - with platter upon platter of food floating behind him. "We've got a ritual sacrifice! Hermione wasn't sure we'd need one, but hey? What's a celebration without a sacrificial animal? Ron was all for using Crookshanks - if you've met the mangy beast you'll get it - but we've settled on the bones leftover from dinner, gotta keep the peace - you understand.

"We've got the thankfulness - not really for the harvest, more what's left behind - and of course, the wicked, _wicked_ indulgences that come with traditional festivities! Granted, 'Ermione reckons I'm making this one up, but it's definitely real - we've all heard stories of what happens during Beltane..." he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows as the flickering of the fire lit up the maniacal grin plastered across his face.

"What the fuck is he talking about?" Theo whispered to Draco amidst the rising noise. "Who even celebrates this shit anymore? And I thought we were talking about Samhain, not Beltane..." 

"Shut your trap, Theo. The man's finally starting to sound interesting. Couldn't hurt to play along, could it?" 

"Are you fucking stupid? Even our stuffy families don't practice this shit anymore. You don't mess with the Gods, Draco!" Theo hissed his response, but Draco wasn't listening properly. George was talking again and his words were riveting.

"- I've taken a few liberties - provided gallons of the best firewhiskey Weasley money can buy," he snorted darkly. "Put together a few uh... liberating... potions... and stuff," he gestured at the small, glistening table behind him. "Let's begin, shall we? Gather round, gather round," he called, hastily handing out short glasses of firewhiskey - neat - to all of his guests. 

Pansy clutched at the fabric of Draco's robe, and despite his growing comfort her clingyness made him wary. He made sure to keep his housemates close as he found them all a cosy spot by the fire. Call it curiosity, call it stupidity - the premise of the evening had him intrigued. 

 

* * *

 

Three glasses of firewhiskey and one bold-blue-potion later, Hermione was well and truly caught up in the moment. She leant into Ron - almost stuffed herself under his robes - and was gazing fondly at Harry nestled in a heap with Ginny. It seemed like something cast off from another timeline; something magical had definitely happened already.

Opponents of every kind sat in their tightening circle around the fire, exchanging war stories freely and sharing happier memories when the mood got too heavy. The moss on the ground seemed to sense their needs, and had grown up into foot-high bushes in the perfect spots so as to be soft backrests for each of them. 

"Hey George?" Ginny questioned from Harry's lap when the conversation lulled. "Isn't the veil supposed to be thinner now, on Samhain?" She stared him down; demanding. "I mean, aren't we supposed to be summoning a God of some sort? The Harvest Guy or whatever? Only if we can summon a God, don't you think we might be able to summon... well, Fred?" 

No one spoke for a moment. Hermione glanced around and could see their thoughts; could read them, because she felt them too. _Fred, but maybe others too. Lupin and Tonks. Harry's parents. Dumbledore or Sirius. Lucius Malfoy, Nott's departed mother. The implications were huge, and as wonderful as it sounded, where would it stop? Would it even work?_

She shook her head. "No." She said, calm but fierce in her declaration. "No, Ginny, I don't think we should." The fire sputtered and sparked its disagreement.

From somewhere across the circle she heard Nott's sigh of relief and smiled when he muttered: "I'll say it again - you don't mess with Gods. Jeez, why are these people so determined to tempt fate?"

Another round of whiskey and blue-potion-vials and everyone, save herself and Theodore Nott, had gotten to their feet and joined hands. Hermione realised when Harry tugged at one arm and Ron at the other that her choice in the matter had been made for her, and she reluctantly joined the group as they prepared to attempt the impossible: to summon Spirits and Gods from beyond the veil. She soon found herself swept up in the commotion that was a motley-crew of misfit teenagers who danced around a fire with joined hands and some sort of surely-made-up chant spewing from their inebriated souls.  

George was the loudest, trying to call back his brother from the dead in some sort of sick experimental game. Disappointment warred with desperation in the lines on his face and the gravity of his voice, and Hermione ached for him. She grew unsettled; frightened, as so many of her friends and classmates called out for their lost-loved-ones - their voices tangled amongst one another. The chanting grew louder - more frantic - and Hermione found herself indulging in the 'refreshments' that were passed around - if only as a way to cope with her growing anxiety. 

Before she knew it Ron had started a movement to call forth the Goddess of Fertility - though he'd called her the Goddess of 'Sex and Fun' - and it had caught on rather quickly. There was most definitely  _some_ sort of power afoot. 

Pansy Parkinson giggled at him and swatted his arm. "God, Weasley, you're stupid. That's _Beltane_ , not Samhain, you cock! Even I know that, and my family's been smart enough not to practice the rites for centuries!" Her shrill voice sounded strange against the low chanting. 

"So what?" Ron shouted back at the petite Slytherin. "We wanna have a good time, don't we?" 

Most of the group agreed, but it seemed highly unlikely he'd be successful considering they'd completely butchered all semblance of ceremony, and now resembled a group of intoxicated ducks with their squawking and foot stomping and swaying. 

 _Besides_ , thought Hermione, _this is all myth and nonsense anyway._

 

* * *

 

Not an hour later, Hermione started to question her earlier assumptions with a vehemence. Right next to her, Neville ( _Neville_!) was curled up against a two-foot-tall moss pillar - sans shirt - with Luna Lovegood attached to his mouth. The famously-awkward boy was running his hands over the strange girl in a way that was hardly appropriate for a public function. Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass had moved off into a deserted corner; her pretty lace top discarded in a heap on the floor and joined by the pretentious outer dress robe Nott had worn.

A glance around her revealed Harry kissing Ginny with a fervor that was just-a-bit-much, and Ron sucking the face right off of Lavender Brown - who's hands had disappeared within his robes. 

Disgusted with herself, Hermione threw back a tube of purple-potion and chased it with a whiskey. She watched in awe and disbelief as Draco Malfoy and Greg Goyle stood at the 'refreshments' table, playing with a powder Malfoy had pulled from his pocket. He already had a detestable dusting of it decorating his left nostril, and Hermione felt compelled to watch as he made the right one match. It was insane how quickly she'd become fascinated with a man she associated with nothing but depravity.

 

* * *

 

Hermione made her way about the minefield of ever-growing moss barricades that seemed intent on snaring her limbs for their own. She took great, calculated leaps to clear the decaying holes spotting the checkerboard floor - which may have been no more than a product of her enhanced imagination.

As she maneuvered her way through the danger-zone, her mind drifted to the young men around her and to the feeling making-house in her gut. Something about Ron's ridiculous summoning and the mixture of concoctions George had provided had planted a need deep inside that was becoming so intense that it was disarming.

Someone thrust another drink into her hand and she felt calloused skin dance gently down her side, its bumps and veins making her shiver even over her clothes. A pair of damp lips found her neck - all but buried beneath her wild hair - and impatient kisses splashed around to her throat. She wanted to scream - to throw the man off - but more than that, she wanted him to continue. He didn't say a word as he drew her closer to him, his free hand finding its way down past her knees to the end of her sensible dress. She bucked and shivered when she felt his fingers on her thigh and climbing, but still, she didn't want him to stop.

She knew this wasn't her; knew this had to be the potions, but something told her to just go with it. She sighed and leaned back into the man behind her, trembling with nervous energy. His lips travelled across her jaw and back; over her collar and down towards her well-covered breasts. The hand climbed steadily, drawing circles on her skin. When the fingers rubbed across her dry knickers, she cried out and spun to see George staring at her, agast at her reaction. 

"Come on 'Ermione, join in the fun," he encouraged after a moment. He tugged gently at the stray hairs dangling loose around her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek. As she wobbled slightly on her feet, Hermione leant in to him and he took her face in his hands. All too soon their lips met, and she was trapped in his gentle caresses and nibbling teeth and sweet-tasting tongue. When at last she remembered herself, she pulled away and shook her head apologetically. 

"No, George. We... We shouldn't. Ron. Well, we only just... and I, I don't think its fair..." She muttered. 

 _You're too good for me, George_ , she thought, _you deserve someone better. Someone whole. Someone who can make_ you _whole again. Someone who hasn't done such terrible things._

George offered her a gentlemanly tip of his head and turned her once around the room. "Its okay," he said. "I get it. But take a chance tonight, okay? We all need something to take the pain away." With that, he was gone, and Hermione was left to ponder his meaning. 

She caught sight of Malfoy across the room, and she suddenly thought she understood.

* * *

 

He was pressed up against Parkinson, and something inside of her _burned_. She wanted him: she wanted to confront her demons head on. The room around her was beginning to spin; mirrored walls warped and twisted her reflection and she thought the new pictures more fitting - stretched and squashed and churning. The floor seemed to be growing up around her - changing into actual living, breathing flora - becoming the maze it was meant to represent and twisting into corners where chess pieces refused to step out of the way.

With her head spinning and her stomach jolting, Hermione tried to keep focus on the flawless skin if the half-naked man she was desperate to reach - though it was becoming more and more difficult as her vision began to blur and hiss at the corners. _Flawless. Has he always been this perfect? Blank and clean and fucking beautiful,_ she thought. _Beautiful and wrong and toxic, toxic, toxic._

He was opposite her now - just beyond the deep fissures that had started parting the living room - with his back turned towards her and Pansy Parkinson in his grasp, pressed hard into the weary cladding. Pansy moaned and pushed back - in pleasure or argument, Hermione couldn't tell. She couldn't even be sure that she trusted her senses as flashes of green and empty screams pierced the sounds of the night. She grasped the tops of furniture as she passed in a wasted effort to maintain some poise. Trying to ignore the way that the ceiling seemed to be raining down on her in fiery balls of ash and molten-steel, she hopped and jumped and wove her way straight for Draco Malfoy.

Hermione ignored the way his hands transversed his caged witch's tiny body and his tongue lapped at diamond studded earlobes. She ignored the petite fingers scraping nails down his back, leaving stunning bloodied claw marks in their wake. The walls were getting closer - slippery, mossy vines reaching out to stroke her neck - and her distance to cover getting shorter.

She hardly even noticed her friends as she passed them. Harry was leaning against the Black King, his too-big jeans around his feet and his head thrown back in bliss from where he was nestled on the floor with Ginny bent forward between his legs. Her back arched, fiery red hair fanned out over freckled skin; mouth full of Harry and chocolate and whiskey. 

Hermione slipped past Seamus and Dean on her path to public desecration. They both had belt buckles hanging loose and tongues intertwined; hands vanished into each other's trousers and their heads so close that she couldn't tell where one stopped and the next began. She caught a glimpse of Seamus' hand darting out to take hold of one that seemingly belonged to a bewildered Millicent Bulstrode, but her attention didn't waver.

As she stepped over sink-holes that bubbled into a hellish inferno, Hermione smirked. _So close._ She watched with grim satisfaction as Draco pushed Parkinson away and turned to shrink against the wall like a God tired of his reign. 

Languishing in alchemical euphoria against blood-stained timber, his silver eyes locked onto hers and he seemed to understand. He rose up like a phoenix from ashes, and took her hand with a gentleness she didn't expect. 

"You." He whispered into her ear. "It's you - you're my absolution. You're fucking filthy blood is gunna set me free."

He pushed her backward into the spot Pansy had occupied just moments before, and she flinched as his easy touch became forceful, ramming her hard into the splintered boards behind her. She inhaled sharply as his cold hands flew up and around her neck, feeling suddenly sick at the thought of being with him, and at the thought of being second to Pansy.

_This is exactly what I need. I want this. I want him. He's sin-fucking-personified and I'll reap my rewards._

"You want me, don't you Granger?" He bit out, teeth grazing the rise of her collarbone and hands tightening around her throat so that she was forced to concentrate on breathing. "You're just as fucking dirty as I am. Just as fucked up." 

Hermione shuddered, feeling her knickers grow damp with the poison of his words. He was wrong. She didn't want him, she _needed_ him. She needed him to prove what she'd become; to take away the phony image of a heroine she didn't feel like and to bookend the fucking horrific battle she'd been involved in for seven god forsaken years. "Yes," she hissed through his tightening grip, the words stinging against her bruised windpipe. "Yes, Malfoy."

He loosened his grip on her throat, bringing one hand up to graze her reddened cheek. Hermione fixated on the scar that slashed across his chest as though it was rising in front of her, creeping up on her, like something tearing through his skin to feast on her sick willingness. She strained against his hold, her shaking hands reached for him and she bent to lick the line of the scar clean, his blood metallic in her mouth. He stilled but didn't stop her, and her roaming hands quickly found more - torn and puckered skin healed in a hurry.

Holes in his perfection; holes that made him into someone.

She gasped when he released her, the rush of oxygen making her even more heady, and she fell forward - dazed - into his awaiting grasp. 

Slowly - almost reverently - he pulled down the zip of her plain black dress and she watched in awe as it fell to the floor. He staggered and then he was prying his belt undone and yanking down his trousers, pulling them together low against the wall, knees bruising against the hard ground. Manicured fingernails dug into her sensitive hairline, his shushing more commanding than soothing as he made short work of the clasp of her bra.

When she whimpered her uncertainty he sank onto her heavily, his body pinning her in place as he bent to kiss her fiercely. _This is it._ Hermione thought, _this is the end of my undoing_. She sighed against his lips and kissed him back, disgust and regret and agony tainting the burning taste of firewhisky and something chemically that might be cheap cocaine or might just be Draco. 

The townhouse shuddered around them and the building seemed to split in two - separating her from Ron and Harry and all she'd come to know; showering them in dust and shards of glass from the windows.

Draco cursed into her mouth and she gasped at the taste of her own blood when he bit down and pierced her lip; his tongue plunging into her mouth - mapping and searching every surface: searching for the ground, for hope, for redemption. She clung to him with her small hands wrapped around his lean biceps, their teeth scraping and tongues pushing, pushing, pushing in the physical manifestation of the lashings they'd delivered to each other growing up. When he reached for the edge of her knickers he paused and pulled back, looking her in the eye for the first time. 

Hermione faltered - confused and startled by what she saw - the same things she'd seen in the mirror everyday since the final battle: everything and absolutely nothing all at once. Then she was on him - tugging at her own knickers and relishing the gutteral noise that came from him when she wrapped her hand around his cock. He bent his head forward, one hand holding him up and the other hell bent on pulling her closer. He trailed wet, open mouthed kisses down her neck; across her collar; over her exposed breasts. His tongue drew circles around her nipple as her hand pulled at him: tighter, harder - harder, tighter, until he was swollen in her grip and his teeth clamped down to save him from moaning aloud. She shrieked in the pleasure of pain and he wrapped his hand into her hair and yanked her down to kiss her roughly before she could change her mind. 

Hermione softened again into the kiss, leaning back against the wall and pulling him with her, shuddering as his lithe fingers found her soaking wet cunt. He stroked and rubbed and basked in the knowing that he'd made her this way; so wanton and ready and _filthy._ As he slipped two fingers up inside her, she quivered - hips jerking; seeking. She let him toy with her briefly - enjoying the idea of him serving her - but she needed _more_ and pushed him away. He balked - frustration rising as he dragged back on her ponytail - but she only smiled: a disturbing, knowing expression exquisitely marring her features. Reaching between them she once again took his rock hard length in hand - and, squeezing once with a playful wink - put his sticky head in place. 

Desire and the need to self-destruct burst to life within him, and and he slammed into her, groaning as she engulfed him. He lifted her back to standing and rammed her onto the back of the couch beside them -slamming in and out of her while her tits bounced freely and her eyes were tightly closed, her mouth stretched open in a silent scream of loathing and delight. She fell back on the couch and bent at the waist - hanging like a doll - her swimming-head lolling and legs open, cunt dripping between them. 

She opened her eyes and her loose arms reached for him but he denied her the satisfaction of participation, instead drawing her legs up so that her ankles rested on his bare shoulders. She was stunning - upside down and almost slung from him - head just touching the seat of the couch and fast reddening as her blood followed gravity and left her pulsing core wanting. Holding her ankles in place with a bruising grip, he continued his pounding rhythm - relishing her tiny whimpers and his new found control. She was slick with pleasure and he was slick with sweat and a freedom he'd never felt before.

He felt the tell-tale tightening growing in his abdomen and slowed slightly, still enraptured by the perfection of her tits moving to his rhythm and the way her arms bounced bonelessly at her sides. If he caught her face in the right light, she almost looked _dead_ and there was something sickeningly _right_ to that. Her harsh, laboured breaths and glaring eyes pulled him from his fantasy and he reached down to pull her up to him, quietly pleased when she fell - exhausted and vacant - into his arms as he folded her tired body so that he could reach for another vial of that sparkling-blue-potion.

She made meek little noises and wriggled her legs on his shoulders until he pulled them down and tipped her head back to allow her to drink. She guzzled greedily and he drank his own glass down - still inside her - while he stroked her sweat soaked hair. She rubbed against him, forcing one of her uncooperative hands to rub against her swollen clit, desperate for release. She began to whimper again - wanting and annoying - and he couldn't help but wrap his hands around that sweet little neck once more, more tightly this time. Her eyes widened in fear, but she relaxed at his shushing sound and he tightened his grasp.

Broken chess pieces marched a track around them, chanting in a frightening imitation of their previous attempts. The ceiling rumbled and opened to reveal the night sky, flames lapping at the stars and a rainbow of colours lighting up the dark. Then - for a second - he was back on the battle field and his hands closed tighter and tighter, until her lips turned a becoming shade of blue and her eyes rolled back in her head. When her lazy kicking finally stopped and her body was limp and unmoving against his, he let go and sighed into her neck, gently tracing the long scar that was a reminder of exactly who they both were. He kissed her perfect lips, his tongue darting out to part them and delighting in her easy compliance. 

He tugged at her hair and thrust deep into her - over and over - and all he could see was the girl being tortured by his aunt. Harder and harder he jammed into her, relishing her slick, obediant cunt and the way her body reacted directly to his. He relished the way she didn't whimper, and the way he was finally, _finally_ in control. He began to feel lightheaded and had to hold the couch to keep himself steady. As he stilled, so did she, and he looked down to find her half-lidded eyes glazed so theystared lifelessly at him.

The pretty stillness of her chest chilled him to his bones.  

"Granger? Shit, Granger. It's not fucking funny, you bitch! Granger!". He slapped her across the face in panic, and with the resounding crack came her sharp gasp for breath and hacking, wheezing coughs. She caught her breath and looked him right in the eye. 

"Do it again," she managed with a dry, hoarse voice. "Do it again. I want to feel nothing." 

Horrified and _so, so relieved,_ Draco pulled her to him, dragging both of them to the ground as his legs gave way beneath him and his vision began to roll. He ran his hand through her hair, murmuring every apology he'd ever owed her and she fell against his chest, his cock sliding out of her. He reached into his pocket for the pills George had handed out earlier and quirked an eyebrow. 

"How about we both forget?" 

Hermione flashed him a sardonic smile through her haze, and reached out to take the shimmering gold disc from his hand only to have it disintegrate into dust between her fingers. Draco smirked at her confounded stare and gestured to the air around them, which was now glistening with the curious substance. 

"Breathe, Granger, that's a girl," he murmured, taking a gulp of the thickened air before pulling her in for a growling kiss.

She was entranced by him - her skin on his suddenly seemed too far apart - the scent of his sweat and booze and sex choking her delightfully. This time his hands were gentle as they learned her body: her heaving curves and hideous collection of scars. Hers were not; her fingernails scraped ownership into his chest, his thighs, his neck, and she tore out strands as she raked her fingers through his hair. He moaned, dropping to lay flat against the floor, and cupped her face and met her lips in a chaste kiss. She dragged her teeth over his bottom lip and across his jaw, nipping at the point beneath his ear before continuing downward. Her silky tongue flickered out to lave at the firm flesh of his chest, and she fell deeper into him.

He re-coupled their bodies with a grunt and she moved steadily atop him, writhing and twisting and clenching as he hardened again inside her. Skin slapped against skin as he rose to meet her halfway. Their mouths joined again in perfect synchronicity and she could feel Draco shuddering, building, breaking inside her. Then he was staring over her shoulder, and she was sure he was going to come but he jolted instead - his swirling grey eyes widened in horror.

Glancing up, Hermione saw what had stopped him. The mirrored walls were closing in, melting and cracking as they advanced. Tendrils were growing out from the maze and ensnaring them - her ankle already entangled - and angered knights were coming for them. Draco lay trembling beneath her as the fiery ceiling began to instead leak blood: bright red blood but congealing, muddy-coloured blood too. She couldn't think, she couldn't speak, and so she shut her eyes and carried on, ignoring the world decaying around her - wasn't that the point? 

Within seconds - willing or not - Draco was spurting into her, the animalistic cry that accompanied his release as unnerving as the setting. Still, she was filled with his warmth and a few more swivels and a swipe of her thumb against her clit, and Hermione was joining him in his blissful demi-consciousness. 

For three calming minutes, Hermione laid against his chest, spent and feeling so far from real she was lost. The steady beat of his heart grounded her and when he wrapped a loose arm around her back she looked up to smile at him, and suddenly her ears were filled with piercing screams. 

She flailed - trying to get off him - but he held her tight, even as he stood to make way for the closing in walls. The shrieking sounded again and she realised it was coming from her own lungs as she dug at his face with her fingernails until they were torn and bloodied, and his face was pretty red ribbons of fear. She turned - desperate to escape - but there was nowhere to go. They'd been closed in and what little light they'd had was gone. It was only she and Draco, and the silver mask that hung - cracked - from his neck. The shredded black robes clothing him sat just right so that she could see the Dark Mark writhing on his forearm. It hissed sweet nothings at her while she watched the scars on his chest and his throat tear open, and his blood gush into a river at their feet. 

He didn't seem to notice; his face was frozen in an expression of pure horror as he cried out: "No, stop! Stop it, can't you see you're killing her?" His screams joined hers and the orchestra of others she could hear from outside their box, and he fought to get closer to her as she fought to get away from him. 

Then the walls fell.

The screaming stopped. 

The silence was absolutely deafening as Hermione glanced around her. She tried to scream but no sound came out. She tried desperately to run but her feet wouldn't move. She was frozen in Malfoy's murderous grasp, and even if she could've run, she had nowhere to go.

The house was alive with the horrors of her life; a ghost stood wavering between there and not-there in between Seamus and Dean, her long hair silvery and almost corpereal as it wrapped itself around the boys necks - choking, gagging, holding. 

Goyle was lumbering toward her, bare chested and hands covered in thick, oozy blood - the same blood that drenched the heavy axe he carried. Pansy trailed behind him, the clicking of her high-heels punctuated by her airy laughter. The crown atop her head was warped and falling down and her beautiful dress robes were smattered with red. She was shrieking: "I'll give you Potter, please, I'll give you Potter! Just leave us be, please!" 

When Hermione turned to see who the wild-eyed girl was looking at she felt the bile rise, burning her throat, and her unheard snarl wanted to become an attack. Voldemort sat just meters from her, his narrow eyes shining emerald green. He was holding Ginny's wasted form and standing right beside a dark, shadowy spectre that looked for all the world like Ron. 

 _No_ , Hermione thought, trying desperately to break against the invisible bonds holding her still. _No, no, this can't be. Ron's alive and Voldemort is gone. Gone, gone, gone. And Harry, where's Harry?_

And that's when she saw it. The skin of Voldemort's snake-like head peeling back - burning from the inside out. Behind the ash - behind the monster - was Harry. _Her Harry_. The scaly, cold form of Nagini materialised from the ashes as they fell, wrapping around Harry's exposed, unmoving form.

Hermione swayed on her feet.

From across the room came a Knight in dull-tin-armour - the chest emblazoned with a name: _Frank Longbottom._ The knight moved with sure strides and with a banged-up jeweled sword drawn before him. Just before Neville (and she could see now that it _was_ Neville) raised his weapon, Fred Weasley cleared his throat from the center of the room, tugging at a loose string on his knitted 'F' jumper.

 _This is mental. Fred is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Fred, dead._ Hermione broke into a fit of mortified giggles, tears flowing freely down her face as the hysteria threatened to settle in. The sound seemed to break the spell: she could move again. More than that, she had _already_ moved; she was now far from Malfoy and awfully close to Voldemort. Perhaps a more apt description was that she _realised_ she could move now. The chaotic stream of violent screams and frantic terror picked up again but was silenced with a single cough from Fred. 

"You guys are such easy targets," he said in an even, cheerful tone that sent shivers through Hermione. "Couple of potions, couple of spells - it really is incredible what Freddy came up with. Halloween House of Horrors. Just a test run, but it looks like it goes pretty well!" He chuckled but the sound was darker than Hermione remembered, and filled her with a new kind of terror.

Her heart broke a little more. 

"Look around you!" Fred continued. "Look properly - go on, no one's gunna bite - I don't think, anyway. Like I said, just a test run." He gestured to the mirrored walls, which shook as they shriveled back to their proper places. "Who's beside you? Around you? More to the point, _who's in the mirror_?" 

Hermione shuddered, but for some reason, felt compelled to find her reflection in the mirror. When her eyes finally adjusted to the shaking glass, she gasped in horror and stepped backward, only to jump forward again with her heart in her throat as she felt the skin of the giant snake graze her arm. There, in the mirror, was a dishevelled form of herself - dressed in a muggle graduation gown with the slice from Bellatrix's knife open at her throat, blood trickling beneath her neckline. The glow of crucio terror danced in the eyes of the 'other' her. 

_Oh God. She took my magic. I'm... gone. Oh God - no,no,no!_

"This," Fred broke her thoughts as he made one vast sweeping gesture with his arms. "Is all that's left. _We_ are all that's left. We're the ones who _know_ and this, my friends, is how you really see yourselves - how you think _everyone else_ sees you."

The quiet remained. No one moved. No one so much as breathed. And then Fred sauntered over to Goyle, took the axe from his shaking hands and without ceremony, swung it at the nearest mirror. 

It shattered and so did all of its counterparts.

Thousands of tiny shards of glass lay in piles on the floor, the real walls of Grimmauld Place townhouse reappearing. When she looked around Hermione was stunned. The magic displaying their most feared selves had shattered too, and around her stood a group of frightened teenagers, in varying stages of undress. Scars - half-healed and ugly - graced their skin, and there was revulsion burned into their eyes. 

"This now," said George, who's second ear and 'F' jumper had vanished, "this is the _real_ you. The real us. This is raw, this is truth. We are all the fucking same!" He cried, and a wetness appeared on his cheeks. "So many people died for our fucking differences. Fred died. Blood and money and power - as if it bloody matters at all. But look at us, for Merlin's sake, _we're all the fucking same_!" 

"George..." Ron approached his brother warily. "George... What have you done?" 

George grinned up at Ron and flicked his wand once more. The maze shrank back to moss on the floor and the nightmare vanished; blood and ash and purgatory all gone. The pristine chess pieces rearranged themselves quietly, standing eerily with members of the party. 

 _Pawns_ , Hermione thought. _That's the_ point _\- we were all just pawns, and now we're all the same._

"Go on, Harry," George gestured to the shaken boy-who-lived-still, ignoring his brother's question. "I believe it's your move, buddy."

Harry stepped up to the White King, sure of the place he'd inherited from Dumbledore, even if he hated it. His hand was poised for action but a clattering, crashing noise beat him to it. Malfoy stood over the broken remains of the Black King, his head bowed. 

"We're all the same," he whispered, turning his gaze pointedly to the faded mark on his arm.

"Checkmate."

 

 


End file.
